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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26999881">Fisticuffs Establishment</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie'>DelusionsbyBonnie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The London-in-the-Air Archival Society [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Battle for London in the Air (Roleplay)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Season 1 Canon, The First Rule Of Fight Club, me an intellectual</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:33:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,220</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26999881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Illegal underground boxing rings are a great way to make a little spare cash, as long as you're the one winning...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The London-in-the-Air Archival Society [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/989598</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Battle for London-in-the-Air Canon</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fisticuffs Establishment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Andrew straightened his jacket and then stepped up to the table.  “‘M here t’fight,” he grunted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman behind the table kept her eyes down, scribbling in a small notebook, but the man sized him up insolently, letting out a long stream of smoke from his cigarillo.  “You don’t say.  All right, Paddy, step to the left.  We’ll call you up when we’re ready.  Helen, put him down in column 3.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My name is Andrew O’Rourke,” Andrew growled.  The woman glanced up at him, and then raised her head, eyes wide.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Win a fight and maybe I’ll give a damn.  Move on, Paddy!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew scowled, but the temptation of the winner’s purse trumped his pride.  He turned away, and the woman watched him go, her expression of surprise softening.  The man beside her had already turned to the next hopeful in line.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew joined the group of men standing to one side of the roped-off ring, exchanging nods with the few he recognized.  The rest of the warehouse floor was filled with people from all walks of life, well-heeled tophatted gentlemen rubbing elbows with painted ladybirds and factory laborers.  All of them seemed to be placing bets, which Andrew took as a good sign.  If the money was flowing freely, some of it would likely trickle down into his pockets.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first two fighters ducked into the ring, and a fellow who looked like he ought to be a midway barker rather than a boxing referee started shouting to the crowd.  Andrew watched the proceedings with interest, paying more attention to the business end than the fighters.  When one of the men staggered to his knees, holding his bleeding nose with one hand, the referee ducked under the rope to hold the other man’s hand up, shouting something and grinning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew watched the defeated man crawl out from the ring.  He was helped to his feet by a couple of burly men who probably worked for Albright, unless Andrew missed his guess.  They slipped an envelope into his hand and ushered him out of Andrew’s sight, toward the back door where Andrew had come in.  So it was a crooked setup.  Andrew wasn’t surprised that the man had been paid to throw the fight.  He wondered how long it would take them to ask him to do the same thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waited through six more fights, while the crowd of challengers grew thinner and the crowd of spectators cheered louder.  Finally, one of Albright’s goons caught his eye and nodded toward the ring, its floor already spattered with sweat and blood.  Andrew slipped off his jacket and shirt, hanging them on one of the posts holding up the delineating rope, then ducked under the line, straightening to meet the eyes of a walrus-mustachio’d bald man so quintessentially British-looking that Andrew couldn’t wait to punch his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“H’annnnnd heyaaah we ‘ave a challenger to our Herculean champion!” the referee crowed.  “Up against our own Jack of Fists, a Hibernean Samson appears!  Eat your potatoes, gentlemen, they’re good for you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew shrugged his shoulders, loosening his muscles.  There was a distinctly feminine cheer from the crowd.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shake hands, boys, and give us a good clean fight!” the referee called.  Andrew extended his hand, but his opponent just snorted through his mustache and raised his fists.  “A grudge match it is then!  Ladies, if you are of a weak constitution, you may wish to look away!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A bell rang out, and the two men began circling each other.  Jack lunged forward with a few quick jabs to Andrew’s midsection, which Andrew batted away.  The crowd was roaring, the noise a dull pressure in Andrew’s ears.  They were probably shouting things about Ireland.  Liam wouldn’t let this English bastard win.  Andrew could beat him.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew feinted, blocked a blow, and then landed a hard punch to his opponent’s middle, following up with another to the side of his head.  The man staggered back, shaking his head, and Andrew pressed his advantage, punching away.  Jack lashed out indiscriminately, catching Andrew across the mouth.  Andrew jerked back, tasting blood and spitting a curse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack straightened, grinning crookedly.  “Up yours, Paddy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on if you’re hard enough,” Andrew gasped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The two men started circling again, more cautiously this time.  Their clashes were briefer, more cautious, and the noise of the crowd began to turn more hostile.  “Come on, boys, let’s give the ladies and gentlemen a good show!  No one lives forever!” the referee called, sounding ever so slightly nervous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew didn’t respond.  This was his fight.  No puffed up little man in a striped waistcoat was going to tell him how to run it.  It looked like Albright had more hold over Jack, though, for the man pressed forward more aggressively.  Andrew was hard pressed to fend him off, and took more than a few blows as he struggled to regain the offensive.  The crowd sounded happier now, though, and the referee’s running commentary was distinctly more relaxed.  At least someone was calm.  Andrew was getting angrier with every blow he took.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jack wasn’t happy either.  Both men were beginning to tire, and their reflexes and punches were getting slower.  Jack feinted forward, and Andrew ducked to the side only to step right into his opponent’s other fist.  Andrew reared back, spitting blood and curses, and lashed out furiously.  He missed, but the outburst was enough to put Jack on the defensive.  Andrew pursued his advantage, pummeling the other man mercilessly until finally Jack could take no more.  One step back at just the wrong moment and a concurrent punch from Andrew laid him flat on his back on the floor, and it wasn’t just Andrew’s imagination that he looked relieved.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The referee darted forward, grabbing Andrew’s arm and thrusting it into the air.  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!  The Hibernian giant, our new champion!”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew swiped at his face with his free hand, and it came away with blood smeared in with the sweat.  The crowd was roaring, mostly in approval, it seemed.  Finally the man let go of his arm and patted him on the back.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good fight, lad.  Here, the boys’ll find you and give you your winnings.”  He gently nudged Andrew out of the ring, and Andrew gladly went.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulled his shirt back on, his head emerging from the neck to see the shy smile of the notebook-carrying woman from the table.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mr O’Rourke,” she said, holding out a bottle and an envelope.  “Compliments of the management.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew accepted them, mumbling his thanks.  The woman’s smile broadened.  “We do hope to see you again.  You seem to be… quite popular.”  Cheeks pink from her daring, she bobbed a slight curtsey and fled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrew frowned after her, bemused.  Funny how she was acting.  He tucked the bottle under one arm and opened the envelope, fingering the wad of bills inside with mild surprise.  He must be popular.  This… this was three months’ rent, with enough to send as much again to Liam.  Well, if he was going to get this sort of reward, they would be seeing him again.  Shrugging his jacket back on, he finally caught a glimpse of the bottle’s label and swore in admiration.  Damn right he’d be back, and in the meantime, he’d be living well.</span>
</p>
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